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i'm not a poet
would i be the one
i would die
latest at the age of 37
but, i choose to survive
when i am not a poet
what a writing hand
i am then?
Nice to meet you, aborigen
me, not a poet, but like you
i wear nothing...
this is just little old piece of scribe, but alas i happen to be a damned poet,damned poet of deep underground, a hart site of poetry. my opinion with our dear Sir amorist John Feddeler fall apart, he sees du as good enterntainment page, i see the page like spot for guerrilla warfare, where one can put all her/his rock bottoms state and any time i have fragile hope my bollocks will be per chance read by some other underdog, iconoclast or renegade.
i am poete maudit, since seven years i am quite illegal in my land, but still somehow "tolerated", this,cos in my youth it was time when i was a sexworker. since then 22 years went, i reformed me as hell and changed much, but i stand up straight to those times when i was sexworker as well. what doesnt means that children from my friends or of somebody else have to take from me this example and become whore, or "madame".
when we observe the life not of nonentity like me, but of some great poets, for example of Arthur Rimbaud, fascinated is he for us when he was young and wrote poems, and much less fascinated when he sold slaves in abissinia, willing to earn long franc. for for no one decent boy it were good example contrar to his early age. in Russia there is quite well known poet, whose name i forgot, who was friend of Vladimir Visotzskij, this man was poet, pimp, associal scoundrel. and, he was and is entirely legal and people read his poems till now.
me, persona non grata, because i dont screamed because of my three month activity of being "madame" my MEA CULPA, either when now i feel it was deplorable way to earn money.mea culpa. but still it was me. different as same, kind, deraged, to that time almost nymphomaniac, what since over 20 years i no more am, because i went long and fretful road of spiritual asceticism, i went through redemption issue and through forgiving. alone and than again with my beloved of yesteryear.but still now i would be advocate to any derailed girl in underworld and do my best to support her. because, here i takwe help by Kathy Acker, on the left, and on the right, and in the middle and everywhere, men have used women's sexualities and sexual needs and desires in order to control women. for until recently a woman's work was her sexuality: motherhood or prostitution. Though for women, work equaled sexuality and almost identity, female work was regarded as second-rate, for instance, housework, and femalesexuality regarded the opposte of virginal: vicious end evil.One result of this hiastorical situation is that heterosexual (and not only, its my notice) women find themself in a double-bind: If they want to fight sexism, they must deny their own sexuality. at the same time, feminism cannot be about the denial of any female sexuality.
Why my love, my genuine love is illegal? hoe long yet i will may exist under psychoterror. When i am so hatred, why dont i deserve fair death, a shot in the heart, or knife in belly. why you fry me like fish on pot, or bet on me like on horse racing..
because i am so unrepeatable surviver? O...
NUYON KIDI
NUYON KADAN
NUYON KADA
TARA DADA II
can't you see that i have like every steppenwolf hundret souls and they all escruciating suffering of your treat..Cant you hear and see my theather of cruelty, where i no one second may play whatever.
no ezer
erabo
numiniama
et niamaini
maniaminia
uma
Neither i have no idea what means german expression "Kein Mensch Is Illegal". when my love is illicit, i am illegal. so desided the state which make a company for/against me here in loony bin.
the best poems i wrote : tillandsia usneoides, sharkology, or how to devour a poet, dead vs. living, harlot's heart, rumination on 1st may i just deleted, because nothing i want possess. it was once readed by dup, commented and it was enough understanding to me, for acknowledge is something what is to me entirely resigned or i wouldeven say unwishable.
just understanding of one creature is already gift to me...
understanding is mercy. but what is mercy - isnt sister of death? like asked arthur rimbaud..
here look few words of mad and entirely sacred Antonin Artaud:
When the solar jackass thought himself well and good.
and when is it the heavens are in their circle?
when one is outside it,
supremely dumb to smell it in his cunt,
with nothing to stand as a barrier against the void,
where there is neither horizonnor upright,
nor surface
nor height,
and everything puts you back in touch with the depths,
when one is straight all the lenngth of him long.
or this:
i dont believe in father in mother,
got no
papamummy
nature, mind
or god
devil
body
or being
life
or nothingness,
nothing inside or out
aand above all no mouth to mouthe Being,
that sewer drilled with teeth
where man, who sucked his substance
from me, looks at me all the time
waiting to get hold of papamummy
and remake an existence
free of me
over and above my corpse
taken
from the void
itself,
and sniffed at
from time to time
I speack from above time
as if time
were not fried
were not this dray fry
of all the crumbles
at the beginning
setting out once more in their coffins.
what a words? who in life ever read this? he is for us just original, a madman.
tomorro is 1st may when i again cannot celebrate this day with other robotnics, even if i laboured long index of time, for eight year i cant celebrate this solemnity.
my executioners, psychiatry and artists you hold me perhaps for fosil, cos of my tough surviving, but i insure you i am not something extraordinary, but neither i am ordinary.
so megaplease to my executioners, kill me fairly,
like soldier have to be killed.
so kill me quick or live me alone. than i will try to help other victims of shipwreck of unearthy love, of shipwreck of entarte kunst. just only not psychogames through which you put me through.
i cannot see the hartness of my facial feature, cos of so much turpidity. so or so free me at last!
and to my ocasional reader i conjure, we have to make everything to FREE PIDGIN, the language of migrants.
would i be the one
i would die
latest at the age of 37
but, i choose to survive
when i am not a poet
what a writing hand
i am then?
Nice to meet you, aborigen
me, not a poet, but like you
i wear nothing...
this is just little old piece of scribe, but alas i happen to be a damned poet,damned poet of deep underground, a hart site of poetry. my opinion with our dear Sir amorist John Feddeler fall apart, he sees du as good enterntainment page, i see the page like spot for guerrilla warfare, where one can put all her/his rock bottoms state and any time i have fragile hope my bollocks will be per chance read by some other underdog, iconoclast or renegade.
i am poete maudit, since seven years i am quite illegal in my land, but still somehow "tolerated", this,cos in my youth it was time when i was a sexworker. since then 22 years went, i reformed me as hell and changed much, but i stand up straight to those times when i was sexworker as well. what doesnt means that children from my friends or of somebody else have to take from me this example and become whore, or "madame".
when we observe the life not of nonentity like me, but of some great poets, for example of Arthur Rimbaud, fascinated is he for us when he was young and wrote poems, and much less fascinated when he sold slaves in abissinia, willing to earn long franc. for for no one decent boy it were good example contrar to his early age. in Russia there is quite well known poet, whose name i forgot, who was friend of Vladimir Visotzskij, this man was poet, pimp, associal scoundrel. and, he was and is entirely legal and people read his poems till now.
me, persona non grata, because i dont screamed because of my three month activity of being "madame" my MEA CULPA, either when now i feel it was deplorable way to earn money.mea culpa. but still it was me. different as same, kind, deraged, to that time almost nymphomaniac, what since over 20 years i no more am, because i went long and fretful road of spiritual asceticism, i went through redemption issue and through forgiving. alone and than again with my beloved of yesteryear.but still now i would be advocate to any derailed girl in underworld and do my best to support her. because, here i takwe help by Kathy Acker, on the left, and on the right, and in the middle and everywhere, men have used women's sexualities and sexual needs and desires in order to control women. for until recently a woman's work was her sexuality: motherhood or prostitution. Though for women, work equaled sexuality and almost identity, female work was regarded as second-rate, for instance, housework, and femalesexuality regarded the opposte of virginal: vicious end evil.One result of this hiastorical situation is that heterosexual (and not only, its my notice) women find themself in a double-bind: If they want to fight sexism, they must deny their own sexuality. at the same time, feminism cannot be about the denial of any female sexuality.
Why my love, my genuine love is illegal? hoe long yet i will may exist under psychoterror. When i am so hatred, why dont i deserve fair death, a shot in the heart, or knife in belly. why you fry me like fish on pot, or bet on me like on horse racing..
because i am so unrepeatable surviver? O...
NUYON KIDI
NUYON KADAN
NUYON KADA
TARA DADA II
can't you see that i have like every steppenwolf hundret souls and they all escruciating suffering of your treat..Cant you hear and see my theather of cruelty, where i no one second may play whatever.
no ezer
erabo
numiniama
et niamaini
maniaminia
uma
Neither i have no idea what means german expression "Kein Mensch Is Illegal". when my love is illicit, i am illegal. so desided the state which make a company for/against me here in loony bin.
the best poems i wrote : tillandsia usneoides, sharkology, or how to devour a poet, dead vs. living, harlot's heart, rumination on 1st may i just deleted, because nothing i want possess. it was once readed by dup, commented and it was enough understanding to me, for acknowledge is something what is to me entirely resigned or i wouldeven say unwishable.
just understanding of one creature is already gift to me...
understanding is mercy. but what is mercy - isnt sister of death? like asked arthur rimbaud..
here look few words of mad and entirely sacred Antonin Artaud:
When the solar jackass thought himself well and good.
and when is it the heavens are in their circle?
when one is outside it,
supremely dumb to smell it in his cunt,
with nothing to stand as a barrier against the void,
where there is neither horizonnor upright,
nor surface
nor height,
and everything puts you back in touch with the depths,
when one is straight all the lenngth of him long.
or this:
i dont believe in father in mother,
got no
papamummy
nature, mind
or god
devil
body
or being
life
or nothingness,
nothing inside or out
aand above all no mouth to mouthe Being,
that sewer drilled with teeth
where man, who sucked his substance
from me, looks at me all the time
waiting to get hold of papamummy
and remake an existence
free of me
over and above my corpse
taken
from the void
itself,
and sniffed at
from time to time
I speack from above time
as if time
were not fried
were not this dray fry
of all the crumbles
at the beginning
setting out once more in their coffins.
what a words? who in life ever read this? he is for us just original, a madman.
tomorro is 1st may when i again cannot celebrate this day with other robotnics, even if i laboured long index of time, for eight year i cant celebrate this solemnity.
my executioners, psychiatry and artists you hold me perhaps for fosil, cos of my tough surviving, but i insure you i am not something extraordinary, but neither i am ordinary.
so megaplease to my executioners, kill me fairly,
like soldier have to be killed.
so kill me quick or live me alone. than i will try to help other victims of shipwreck of unearthy love, of shipwreck of entarte kunst. just only not psychogames through which you put me through.
i cannot see the hartness of my facial feature, cos of so much turpidity. so or so free me at last!
and to my ocasional reader i conjure, we have to make everything to FREE PIDGIN, the language of migrants.
Published 30th Apr 2015
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30th Apr 2015 1:52pm
A poet(ess) is indeed more than their words or experience if we dare to brave the origin behind the pen.
30th Apr 2015 2:08pm
this say nothing, cos i know a poet which words of poetry is indeed much more then person behind a pen. i hate the person but till tears admire her poetry.
